Turpin studied the scum covered wall. Nothing looked out of place, nothing that he could see. Except for a tiny smudge at the top right corner of one worn stone. He lightly rubbed his fingers over the smudge, feeling the gunk covered walls. He pushed at it and the stone slid inwards with a rumble. A larger section of the wall then came loose. Turpin pulled the heavy stone door open and passed through it.
The tunnel he now stood in was not as the sewer had been; there were no grooves at the junctions of the stones. The walls, floor and ceiling, were all roughly cut from the same stone, all one stone. He knew he was no longer within the city walls, but in a passageway, possibly dating back to when Bristork was first built.
Far down the dark tunnel, Turpin could see a faint greenish- red glow. He hoped it was an opening to the tunnel. He quickened his pace, holding a hand to his side as he did. The black rock shone with the morning dew of the mountains at the exit of the cave.
The red sun sat low in the west, not even reaching over the ridge that loomed before him as he slowly climbed out of the cave. He wheezed in the crisp mountain air, stood and looked back towards Bristork. The place he was standing at was above the city and he was able to look down towards the Keeper's house. It seemed to him to be hollow, vacant. Not dead, he thought, for it had never been truly alive. He thought of the dead man's stare and the evil smile and open throat of the warlock.
His thoughts were interrupted by a deep rumbling growl to his right and, instinctively, he moved towards the sound. Turpin crept along the rocks crowding the mountain side until he could see the source of the sound. There, at the crest of a hill overlooking the farms of Fynstork, he could see Frost chanting in a deep, dark language. He was holding the Obelus gem in one hand, the dragon shard in the other. Turpin saw one archer standing guard. He crept forward, from shadow to shadow until he was almost upon the archer.
"A claw for a Claw!" he thought grimly as he removed his new karambit. A voice gurgled from behind him, calling for Frost. Turpin ducked behind a small pile of stones and lost himself in the shadows. He looked at who was calling.
The warlock limped toward Frost, who was standing in front of what appeared to be giant black stones that moved as if breathing. The Keeper looked just as Turpin had left him; beaten, bloodied, yet he walked. The gaping holes where his eyes used to be looked right at Turpin, and he smiled widely showing his sharpened teeth.
"Frost!" He cried again, but Frost did not stop his chanting. The archer began to turn but the Keeper flicked his wrist and the archer was hurled by an unseen force against the rocks that concealed Turpin.
Frost continued chanting as the warlock reached him and pulled out a wicked-looking blade. The hilt and pommel were designed like a great serpent. As Turpin watched spellbound, the warlock raised the knife and plunged it into Frost’s back. Frost turned. His eyes locked on the warlock, the spell interrupted.
Turpin could not hear what was said between the two of them, Frost and the warlock, over the sudden ear-splitting roar of a black dragon. He hid there, terrified, remembering the blackness of the vision he had had, and of the flames.
Frost resumed his chanting as he and the warlock began to fight over the Dragon Shard. The Dragon reared up, stretching its wings as if it just wakened from a deep sleep. It opened its fearsome mouth. Turpin’s fear overwhelmed him and he exploded out of his hiding place, sprinting towards the edge of the steep hill that over looked the valley. It was at that moment that the archer awoke.
The archer immediately saw Turpin speeding past him and he drew his bow. The dragon roared again, causing the archer to release the arrow, before aiming well, from the startling cry.
Turpin cared not for anything going on behind him; all he wanted was to be free from all the deception, and especially the dragon. Never had he seen a creature so large and so ferocious. All he had to do, he thought, was slide down the hill. The pain in his body was nothing compared to the fear that engulfed him, the fear that gave him speed.
The edge of the hill was mere feet from him when the dragon exhaled and a heat worse than the deepest hell came forth. A sharp pain burst through Turpin as the arrow sank deep into his back. The force of the strike sent him tumbling forward down the hill. The last thing Turpin saw, as he went over the edge, was the dragon's fiery breath enveloping the entire hill top. He felt himself falling and he wondered briefly if this was his time to pass to the Otherside. Then his head struck a rock and his sight went black.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Born in southwest Pennsylvania, Wayne began writing at the age of ten and is fascinated with history and religion. He has been developing the world of Ashra since the early 2000s, which was inspired by the first short story he wrote and a dream nearly six years later. During which time Wayne has written many poems and songs aside from the world that resides in his mind.
"This is only the beginning. Just wait for the real war to start and you learn what it's really about."
-Wayne O'Brien
Rise of the Dragon Page 6